


Signal Flare

by Alice_in_Black



Series: Nora Fitzpatrick [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Battle Scenes, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, Multi, OT3, Polyamory, Rescue Mission, Romance, music prompt challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-12 03:38:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5651137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alice_in_Black/pseuds/Alice_in_Black
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Tumblr music prompt!</p><p>Finding a family in each other was more than Nora, Hancock, or MacCready ever expected. Losing each other is worse than any of them could stand. When Nora is in trouble, there's no question: hell or high water, they're getting her back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was spawned from that delightful song prompt! Tumblr user @thegaminggene challenged me to write something inspired by the song "Furious Angels" by Rob Dougan. It was my first time ever hearing the song, and hoo-boy, it is an intense one! So, with the feel of this song in mind (and playing on repeat the whole time I wrote), here is the story of ghoul and nerd husbands getting sad and shooting stuff.

Silence, calm before the storm. Peace hung on the cold haze descending over the raider encampment in the very first light of dawn. Welcome to the hour of peace in between the feral-infested streets of midnight and the daytime ruled by the raiders and Super Mutants and Gunners; the hellscape of Boston slept while it could, defenses as low as they were gonna get, but one eye ever open.

No one could be the least bit surprised, of course, when the serenity was shattered by the bang of MacCready’s rifle. Hancock sneered, hissed something about a romantic sunrise ruined; MacCready didn’t answer, hadn’t answered to anything the ghoul said the whole way here. He just kept his mouth shut in the same grimace it had been in for hours as his hand snapped to the bolt of his rifle, spent casing popping from the breech with an impatient ring against broken cement at their feet.

And Hancock could guess what he’d say later; it was tinnitus acting up, honestly never heard a word, didn’t even know Hancock had been trying to get his attention. 

Bullshit. The kid was just too angry to respond. Looked like if he tried to say a word, he might even start to cry. He wasn’t trying to upset Hancock, they were both at wit’s end already, and Hancock knew MacCready could be an ass if he wanted to. Poor MacCready’s eyes were bloodshot and persistently wet, no sassy smirk in sight.

Not that Hancock would blame him for a second. The palpitations in his chest were from more than just the massive doses of Jet he’d been taking all night, that was for fucking sure. The edge to his voice and the itch on his skin far were worse than a jonesing for something sinful.

Hancock knew MacCready wouldn’t answer, but he said it anyway, “Good shot, love.” Hard to see what was what from this far away without looking through MacCready’s fancy-schmancy scope, but the burst of red like a firework in the distance told a plain enough story to follow.

Was there movement? Was the sudden death of their lookout noted by the sleeping wastlanders inside their junk walls? The gunshot was far away enough that anyone inside the raider den could reasonably assume the fight was somewhere else. He watched, but he couldn’t spot any trace that MacCready’s perfect assassination had been witnessed by any other soul.

But after a breath, MacCready shifted his aim to what Hancock assumed was another victim of their shared rage. Another bang, the start of a curse caught halfway out his mouth, and another series of clicks as MacCready worked the bolt of the rifle and set another round in place.

“Ya get one?” Hancock rasped. His black eyes scanned the wall from behind their cover of a wrecked car, but unlike the first kill, there was no grand gory explosion for Hancock to take comfort in.

“They’re good as dead,” MacCready finally said, ending his hours-long silent treatment. “Just not as instant as I hoped.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. Not long now.” MacCready pulled his gun from the hood of the car and turned to rest the back of his head against the metal. “I wanted to get a few of ‘em out before we stormed in. Better to take them out from afar…”

“We knew we were going in,” Hancock’s gravelly voice reminded the merc. Well, now Hancock could see hints of movement. Moreover, he could hear the rising shouts of alarm. “I’ll go in first, you cover me from back here.”

“Don’t get too far ahead of me,” MacCready said, and he glanced back over the hood to see where the raiders were swarming on their walls. Lining themselves up just like MacCready liked it. He set the rifle back over the car and got his next target in his sights. “I want to stay close.”

“Follow once I clear it to the door. Cover me up ‘til then.”

“Gotcha. I’ll be right behind you.”

Hancock barely left the cover of the car before the firefight began in earnest. A bullet whizzed past him, then another, and shit if they hadn’t lined these old digs with ballistic fiber the next bullet wouldn’t given him a hole in his shoulder. Instead, he felt a sting, a burn of agony and the promise of an ugly bruise. No time to focus on that, he had raiders streaming out the door to welcome them. He ignored the fire in his veins when the recoil of his shotgun hit hard against the growing welt, instead taking satisfaction in the way their head splattered off their body and deciding which asshole was next.

They swarmed, armed with swatters and knives and other random crap-turned-weaponry. Meanwhile the gun-toting raiders above on the wall, deciding collateral damage not worth it, focused on the deadly mercenary many yards back. Better the old piece of shit Corvega take a beating than Hancock, the ghoul easily decided, just as long as MacCready got away from any potential fusion generator explosions.

MacCready knew what he was doing.

The mayor of Goodneighbor took his mind off the capable mercenary and focused on his own gaggle of shitbags, hollering and swinging like they didn’t even notice Hancock had a fucking gun in his hands.

Don’t take a goddamn pool cue to a gunfight, kiddos.

Loud as hell, loud enough to drown out the scream of the nearest unfortunate raider, the shotgun shattered the air again. With both shells spent, Hancock bought himself time by thrusting the stock hard into the nose of a warpainted brute a head taller than himself. Probably thought the scrawny ghoul would be nothing. Well, a blink of an eye later and Hancock was snapping the break of his shotgun back into place. That big raider’s broad chest caught the whole of the shotgun’s spread.

You’d think one or two would decide to cut their losses and make a break for it, but no, they just kept right on coming. What were they doing before Hancock and MacCready got there, shooting Psycho? Fuck.

One more shot, one more body dropping, one less face present.

Hancock’s last enemy came in hot, leading with a full-bodied swing of a spiked swatter. It hummed a wicked sound in the air, and it took a quick pull of his shotgun to his side to intercept it before it tenderized his ribcage bad. The swatter carried more force than his awkward block could absorb, and at once he could feel the crack of a rib when his wooden stock crushed against him. Better than spikes, Hancock tried to assure himself, stumbling back a few steps to try and give himself enough distance to reload, or at least to get his bearings to defend himself properly.

The swatter swooped in once more, now going for the head. Now, his pretty tricorn hat was good for an awful lot of things. Keeping rusty nails out of his grey matter wasn’t fucking one of them.

He sputtered three curses at once, all jumbled and meaningless, just as he hopped barely out of its way. The swatter whizzed past, the cocksure raider turned with the momentum of their vicious attack, and there it was, the opening Hancock loved to see.

How did this one like sharp shit going for the ribs, huh? With no small thanks to the steady flow of Jet that made up most of Hancock’s air supply today, the ghoul flicked his combat knife out of the back of his belt and plunged it deep into the raider’s side, angled up to get through gut and lung and heart all in one damning jerk of the knife.

“You alright?” MacCready came up just in time to watch the last death throes of the raider. Though the junk wall fortification sparkled with blood in the glow of dawn, MacCready looked no worse for wear save for the hollow blue rings of emotional and physical exhaustion around his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t you worry about me, you know I like rough,” Hancock said. No snort of laughter or sordid promises for later like he would've heard under better circumstances, and that made his stomach sink. While MacCready picked his way over the cluster of corpses, Hancock opted for the direct route stepping right on their still-warm bodies. “You took ‘em all out?”

“There’s gonna be more in the building.” His throat still sounded tight. Nah, killing a few of these assholes wouldn’t lift their spirits, not with stakes this high.

“I hear ya.” But there was no going back. This particular clan of fuckheads went and made themselves two very pissed off enemies last night. They went through the old salvaged door through the wall of their fortification, and there it was on the ground, the fallen signal flare surrounded by a halo of blackened concrete.

It didn’t make it far at all, not even high enough for any passing Minutemen or settlements to see. Fuck, if they’d seen it from the Old State House, they’d have gotten here that much quicker.

And sure, Hancock had hoped that the whole story was made up, that the drifter who reported passing by an encampment to see a flare shoot out a window and right onto the ground was just a sick joke to see how riled up the mayor could get. But seeing it there, confirmation that there was a reason their Nora didn’t come home last night, felt worse than he could have imagined.

Sick. He was sick, stomach in knots, heart unable to decide if it wanted to race or stop completely, just looking at that flare. It was cold, not even a single ember left alive. Fucking shit, if it wasn’t the only thing they found dead here, Hancock wasn’t sure how he’d make it.

And MacCready had that look, brows knit, frown carved deep with the slightest snarl to his upper lip. Ready to lose his shit any minute. Hancock had seen the look before, but never so deep, never so scared.

“Come on,” Hancock rasped. He grabbed MacCready by the arm of his coat and give him a gentle pull toward the building. “Keep it together. Our girl’s in there, and she’s counting on us.”

“Y-yeah. Yeah.” Unconvinced. A little hollow, preparing for the worst, mind already settled on painful memories and old guilt. Even on the best of days, his hope was so quickly rattled; they were all a happy, stupid family one moment, and then in the blink of an eye he could get that look like a little kid terrified to be left alone. And there was that look, like he was already abandoned.

Nora meant something to both of them. She loved them for who they were, people neither expected to be worth loving. And when you had that kind of light around, it was easier to see it in others, too. Wasn’t long before the three of them fell into an easy, comfortable routine of sleeping in a pile and stealing kisses between trills of gunfire.

It was a drug unlike any other. Life got real simple when the people who had your back were the same ones who had your heart. Hancock was the voice of morality, _look out for the people who need it_ ; Nora was the voice of kindness, _look out for everyone even if that means you’ll work yourself to death_ ; MacCready kept them both alive with the voice of necessity, _look out for our own damn selves, come on, we ain’t helping anyone if we don’t eat, we need caps if we’re gonna survive out here, hey, listen!_

A right neat little family. Funny how all that comforting and happy shit made his mind run frantic with terror to think on now. Funny how being so blissfully in love felt like a fucking curse, a death sentence, when it was so close to being taken forever.

Hancock’s hand on MacCready’s sleeve slipped downward to press a comforting squeeze to the sniper’s shaking fingers. “You good?”

“Won’t be good ‘til she’s safe,” whispered MacCready. His blue eyes were sharp as if he were still looking through his scope. He hadn’t left the battle yet, and he wouldn’t until this whole place was empty save for one blue-suited bleeding-heart angel.

“Then let’s go get Sunshine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any and all comments, notes, or constructive critiques.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr, I'm @aliceliveson and if you ever want to throw headcanons, prompts, reaction requests, or anything, absolutely anyyythiiing my way, I am all too happy to take them~
> 
> EDIT: This doesn't really wrap up neat, and wasn't fully intended to. But if anyone would like a second chapter to finish this scene, let me know.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their mission isn't finished until their Fitz is home and safe. But holding on to hope is difficult when all the signs point to the worst possible scenarios.

Breath shaking from their lips, skin slick with sweat, ammunition almost out, and nearly every inch swept through in the desperate search for their Nora, something almost like hopelessness started snaking its way into their brains.

Every new room they stepped into, MacCready had to stop in the doorframe. He'd close his eyes, take a breath, prepare himself for the moment when he looked down to see his beautiful boss-turned-girlfriend dead at his feet. For every doorway, his heart hammered in his chest hard enough to make the mercenary wonder if it was just going to stop, if he could simply handle no more. But each time, it was just a pile of dirty bodies, strangers he didn’t give two shits about. He relinquished the lead to Hancock before they even made it to the second story. Hancock always kept it together when he took the lead, and they both knew that the pressure of spotting her body was more than Mac could handle.

Not that Hancock wanted to be the one to see the bad news first, but at least the ghoul maintained a chipper facade. When MacCready got too quiet for too long, Hancock whispered over his shoulder encouraging words that their Little Miss Fitz was too good to go out here, that a gal with brains like hers would make it through anything, that there was no way she’d ever leave the two of them alone, that they’d be home before lunchtime, just you wait. It might've been true, but everything about every macabre scene they walked through set the scene of a different tale The massacre last night left sprays of red mist on walls and floors, torn limbs scattered about too far from corresponding bodies, and the chilled feeling of a place that, if it wasn’t haunted yet, sure as fuck is now.

No wonder they had been out in force and ready when MacCready shot the first raider in the head. They must’ve all still been up looking for Nora Fitzpatrick, still wreaking havoc inside Perhaps their arrival pulled some of the raiders away from the gunfight with her. Maybe they actually saved her after all.

As much as MacCready sure frikkin’ hoped so, the dark circles around his eyes spoke volumes about how much hope he had left. It was all Hancock could do to keep them both going forward.

They couldn’t give up. Not until they had clear, solid proof that she was--

Neither of them would say it.

“Babydoll did fucking work,” Hancock breathed upon opening the door from the stairwell onto the third floor. “Looks like a grenade went off in--” He took a few steps into the room, and upon getting a better look around, amended his statement, “Well, shit, a grenade _did_ go off. Look at that, blew right through the floor, too. Hey, keep close, MacCready. I don’t see her in here, we gotta keep looking.”

Not a living soul came to meet them. No shots fired, or shuffling sounds to indicate anyone moving, just silence and bodies. MacCready tried not to look at any of the corpses. He’d just take Hancock’s word for it, she wasn’t in here. He didn’t need to find out otherwise. Didn’t want to.

“You think she killed all the raiders in the place?” Hancock asked as he kicked a body aside to get into the office beyond it.

“Looks like maybe the only ones left alive were the ones who came out to meet us,” MacCready confirmed. “Don’t let your guard down yet, though.”

“Don’t you worry, love. I’m here to protect the both of you, twenty-four-seven.”

MacCready didn’t have an answer for that; coming to Fitz’s rescue after the fact hardly felt like protecting her. If she was dead, MacCready knew exactly what feelings would come with the discovery. The loss, the shame, the emptiness.He could already feel it in the sharp stabs of anticipatory guilt he got in his chest every time he imagined tripping over what was left of her on the grenade-shattered tile.

Hancock smacked the butt of his shotgun against another door to force it open. Still no sound. Still no movement. The whole place died last night. “Nora?” Since they could reasonably assume any remaining raiders would have heard them by now, Hancock dared to raise his voice louder. “Hey, Nora! Where you at, sweetheart? MacCready and I are here to take you home! Where ya hiding?”

Dull, barely there, but certainly something, the faintest _bump_ like a book dropping off a coffee table echoed from up above. MacCready’s eyes went to the ceiling, searching the rotting foam panels like he expected to see her peeking out from around one of the dust-caked light fixtures. “Upstairs. Almost right above us.”

“Raider?”

“Maybe, but don’t go in guns blazing. I think it might be her.”

“Is that optimism I hear?” Hancock chuckled. The sound choked halfway out. Poor ghoul wasn’t fooling anybody.

MacCready’s lips smacked shut. If Fitz were with them, she’d be scolding them both about jinxing it and knocking on a surface to restore their luck. MacCready did it on her behalf, tapping the wall as he followed Hancock back to the stairwell. They could use some luck on their side, considering how grim the place was. Hard to imagine they’d find anything good when bodies littered every floor, bullet holes marred every wall, and burn damage highlighted where matters got especially out of hand.

Sometimes it amazed MacCready that these stubborn old buildings lasted after the big boom. After surviving the apocalypse, how the heck did they manage to handle a night like last night, too?

“Ready?” Hancock held the door of the stairwell open for MacCready.

“Find Fitz first, then start shooting,” MacCready said. “Don’t go firing your shotgun before you know if she’s there or not. If she gets hit by any spread--”

“I hear you, babe,” Hancock growled, “you just cover me in the meantime.”

Next floor, next heart-attack waiting to happen, MacCready thought the moment Hancock opened the door from the stairwell. More offices awaited them, with less blood this time. Dust kicked up in a scuffle still floated in the air as a promise of recent life in these halls.

As good a sign as any. MacCready aimed over Hancock’s shoulder. The ghoul kept his shotgun up, but his finger rested on the trigger guard. They walked in tandem, slow steps creaking loud on scuffed linoleum, eyes sharp. MacCready tapped a finger on Hancock’s shoulder and pointed right in the mayor’s peripheral. Hancock nodded once, followed the finger to the door on the right side of the hall, and twisted the doorknob with the nervous care of defusing a bomb.

MacCready’s rifle found home once more on Hancock’s shoulder -- if he ever cared about acting as the living meat shield to the sniper, he never said so. After all, MacCready had the benefit of a clean, precise shot, as opposed to Hancock’s haphazard spray of buckshot, and it would hardly be fair to ask the sharpshooter without fear of causing collateral damage to take the vanguard.

Times like this, MacCready felt especially thankful at what a good sport Hancock was. If they found Fitz dead, he’d need someone to hide behind, a shoulder immediately available to cry on, a body to hold. If it was him who had to see her first, MacCready wasn’t sure how long he could hold back the tears. Or screams. Or any of the other undignified responses he already felt threatening the frayed remains of his composure.

MacCready could control his trigger finger like a champ. He didn’t hit anything he didn’t absolutely intend to kill. Bullets ain’t cheap, after all, and there’s too much at stake to let a nervous twitch of the finger get the better of you. But he was ready to blow the brains out of anything that wasn’t their Fitz, oh, so ready to end anything that wanted to put him or Hancock or her in danger. If he died in this palace, they could just write _cornered animal_ on his tombstone.

So, he thought, just barely glancing over Hancock’s shoulder to line up the shot, was this a raider or their girlfriend?

Was he about to kill a man, or was his heart about to burst with relief or anguish? It was a dangerous ledge of desperation and fear that MacCready traversed too gosh-darn often in this joke of a life of his.

MacCready wasn’t going to shoot, not until he was sure, but he didn’t get the chance either way. Hancock’s hand shot up like the burst of water that happens when you throw a grenade in a lake. He grabbed the barrel of MacCready’s rifle and pushed it up, far from the silhouette it had aimed for just a moment before.

He wasn’t going to shoot, never got the chance even if he was, but he didn’t like seeing his sights on her even for a moment.

Hancock screamed for her first, just a garbled mess of syllables that was maybe her name, maybe a proclamation of love, maybe a curse, maybe all those things at once. The ghoul dropped on his knees at Nora’s side before MacCready could even fumble his rifle back onto his back.

“Holy fuck, Sunshine!” Hancock sputtered when his words came back. “Shit. Shit, fuck, shit!”

“She alright?!” MacCready almost fell beside her as well, but Hancock raised his arm to stop him.

Nora, their Little Miss Fitz, their Sunshine, their Knockout, the last piece of the puzzle that made their family, lay half-hidden underneath a broken desk. Her gas mask remained fastened tight to her face, but a trickle of blood escaped from under the rubber lip at her chin, and the hardware at her temples must have gotten knocked hard because the visible edges of her face burned red from friction.

Surrounding her were the reasons Hancock stopped MacCready from joining them on the floor: needles, five of them. Three stimpacks and two narrower syringes with thinner needles, crystal vials cracked against the floor. She’d had to roll up the sleeves of her vault suit to get the Med-X needles to pierce, which afforded them the view of yet another raised injection point that puffed up tellingly, bright and angry.

“Holy crap, Fitz,” MacCready breathed. “What did you do last night?”

Hancock sucked in a breath. “So. That’s why she thought it was a good idea to storm a raider nest. Fuck, babe, of all the chems to take alone…”

“She gonna be alright? Hey, answer me! She okay?” The shake in his voice almost sounded like slurring. Well, for one reason or another, he was getting drunk after this.

“The Psycho wore off too soon for her. No one wants to come down in the middle of the lion’s den, ya know? She doesn’t look too banged up, so I’m thinking the Med-X wasn’t for the pain as much as…” Hancock lifted a tin from her hand, empty but for a few crumbs of chalk-like substance that floated down to dust over her chest. The hand-written inscription on the tin read ‘Sunshine.’ “Hate being right sometimes. Shit. Bad trip, bad come-down, huh? Come on, babe, let’s get you home.”

“B-but she’s going to be fine?” MacCready stuttered. The moment Hancock started to lift her up from under the desk, MacCready was bending forward and helping the mayor slide her onto his back. “She feels like dead weight.”

“Might want to get her to a doc. Chasing Psycho with a cocktail of other chems ain’t exactly following the recommended dosage, and slaughtering fifty men in a blood-fury and hail of bullets will take a lot out of a person even on a good day. You got her alright?”

MacCready straightened, shifting her weight on his back. She leaned into him, heavy as stone, unmoving as a corpse. Was she breathing? MacCready held still, so still, trying to feel for a heartbeat against his shoulder, but he couldn’t tell. Was that breath against his ear, or just wishful thinking? Was he going to carry her all the way back to Goodneighbor just to bury her there?

Please, please no. Please, not again.

Hancock took his usual place at the lead. He was the leader type, the strong type, the protector type, yeah, he was exactly what MacCready and Nora both needed in a man, now more than ever. MacCready kept close enough to step on the backs of the ghoul’s heels with practically every step, but Hancock never mentioned it.

No one tried to stop them from leaving the dilapidated office building. Nora may have been worse for wear, but she wreaked havoc on the poor bastards like they weren’t prepared for. If any of them survived her rampage, or Mac and Hancock’s initial rush into the building after her, they must’ve learned from their dead friends’ mistakes and were keeping out of their way now.

For the better. Hard to shoot with a body slung on your back.

Only one sorry sucker tried to get between them and Goodneighbor, some Gunner separated from his group, and he got blown to bits by Hancock before his hand even touched the gun on his holster.

For once, MacCready didn’t care how many caps might’ve been stuffed in the man’s pockets, or what ammo could’ve been stashed on his person. Loot could be left to the scavvers, for all he cared, there was no time to waste. The girl on his back got heavier every step.

“She can’t die,” he moaned. How many more blocks until they got to Goodneighbor? Was it always so far? “Hancock, hey, she’s gonna be alright, right?”

But his voice came out thick, too thick, “We’re gonna be alright, Mac.”

We? As in all three of them, or…?

No sooner had they burst through the door into Goodneighbor, the sun of high noon beating down from unseasonably clear sky above, than they screamed for help like bloody murder. Any help, all the help, everyone who'd ever even held a stimpack before, they needed anyone.

Their warrior queen got laid out on Hancock’s couch like the sleeping princess from the old storybooks MacCready used to read as a kid. Without the gas mask, she looked one hell of a sight. One of the glass goggles got punched or something, leaving a perfect circle of nasty raised purple around her left eye. The foam around her mouth dried into crumbly flakes down her chin - Psycho ain’t a pretty chem, kids.

But without the mask, they could hear her breathing.

Breathing, it was the sweetest sound MacCready heard in a long time.

As the doctor mopped her up and set an IV of something clear and cleansing into her, MacCready made himself comfortable on the floor by her head where deft fingers could comb through matted hair and smooth down her brows and just touch her to feel her warmth and know she hadn’t left them.

Hancock took a generous hit of Jet on the other couch, eyes never leaving his lovers across from him even as he tossed the half-full inhaler across the room.

“I have too much to lose now,” MacCready lamented. “It’s terrifying. Being alone is the scariest thing I can imagine, but now, it’s so much worse. If I’m ever alone again, it’ll be because I lost you two. I don’t think I can handle that.”

“So, what?” Hancock rasped. “You thinking of bailing on us?”

“What? No! Never! I just - I don’t know. I don’t know what I’d do.”

“Well, you don’t gotta wonder.” Hancock slipped off the couch and scooted across the floor to set himself against MacCready’s back, his legs sprawling out wide on either side of the mercenary. “We just keep looking out for each other, and we’ll never have to find out.”

The good mayor sounded confident enough. MacCready wouldn’t say aloud how he could feel the ghoul shaking against him. He wouldn’t say anything when Hancock’s head dropped to the top of his spine and every breath came out sputtered and labored.

He wouldn’t say anything. He’d just reach out and knock three times against the coffee table to restore their luck, like Fitz would if she were awake.

They could use some luck on their side. Between the three of them, there wasn’t enough to go around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed! Comments, critiques, notes are all very appreciated! I wanted this to be angsty, and I felt like I was laying it on pretty thick, so tell me what you thought of it, please!
> 
> Thank you for reading and your support!


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